


Ancient & True Ways

by fieryphrazes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Fantasy AU, First Meetings, M/M, Medieval Fantasy, No Homophobia, No period-typical homophobia, Slow Burn, i mean it's not a historical time period obviously but
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-17
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-06-28 14:25:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15709041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fieryphrazes/pseuds/fieryphrazes
Summary: Sherlock is on the run when an isolated farmer takes him in. As their friendship grows, they set in motion a series of events that ensures Sherlock cannot go back to the life he knew before. But why would he want to?This is a medieval fantasy story, set in a society where there are old-magic ways of binding people together. The more bindings are performed, the stronger the magic.





	1. Chapter 1

Ancient and True Ways of Binding

the mark – tattoos, traditionally on the ankle

the cloth – binding of hands

the blood – blood oath

the growth – planting of a tree 

the hearth – building of stone hearth and fire

the troth – fidelity sworn before witnesses

the lintel – carrying over the threshold

 

Once bound in the old ways, one cannot be taken from the other.

 

* * *

 

 

I left the fortress under cover of darkness. I’d spent weeks studying patterns and habits, ensuring I knew where the guards would be every moment of the day and night. It’s not that I was a prisoner – but I wasn’t exactly free, either. James kept close watch over me. 

It was almost too easy to slip past the walls into the city. From there, it was child’s play to walk through nearly deserted streets until I came to the city’s borders. I shifted the pack on my back and walked until the brightly-lit windows faded into the night.

It was nearly dawn when my body betrayed me and I grew tired. My mind had been racing: revisiting maps I’d memorized and formulating plans, none of which led anywhere realistic. I was a good six hours from the city by now; it should be safe to stop. I passed an inn along a stone road, but knew that path was too dangerous. So I took a fork down a dirt path. Based on the tracks, it had been packed by a donkey and dozens of sheep. Perfect.

I traveled this way for days, stealing a few hours of sleep in the shadows of haystacks, or in clearings in the woods, as I steadily worked my way north. There were few people on the narrow roads after dark, and I found no danger. I had nothing to steal, save for a few loaves of bread, getting harder each day. After nearly a week of traveling by night and hiding away by day, buildings were few and far between. Inns had disappeared after day three, and now there was only an occasional farmhouse, surrounded by the usual outbuildings.

It was near a rough wooden barn that I met my first misfortune. In my exhaustion, I tripped over a stone and fell to the ground. I stayed down, catching my breath for a moment. My ankle had rolled, but wasn’t sprained. The main concern was my hands – bloody from breaking the fall. I decided it was time for a proper stop.

I came to the barn soon after. Inside was a donkey, along with several goats, a cow, and a mean-looking ginger cat. She and I struck up a grudging truce and I climbed into the hayloft to rest.

I’d almost fallen asleep when the barn door creaked open. Immediately, adrenaline coursed through me. Stupid! Of course farmers get to work at dawn. And here I was, hiding in a hayloft. Could I be more suspicious? But the man didn’t notice me, it seemed. He carried on whistling and moving around below.

Perhaps I grew complacent – I nearly drifted off– but the next thing I knew, the ladder started creaking and the farmer’s head appeared in the hayloft. He rolled his eyes.

“Oh, not again,” he said. I frowned in confusion.

“Again?” I asked groggily.

“Look, you can sleep here for a few hours, just don’t steal any eggs,” he said plainly. “If you’re still here when I get back from the pasture, I might even feed you.”

I could only stare at him. 

“But you’ll only get a meal if all my chickens are safe and accounted for,” he warned.

I was speechless. Sleeping in a hayloft was one thing, but stealing? Insulting. By the time I gathered my words, he’d already disappeared from view. I scrambled to the edge of the loft and watched him saunter out the door, whistling again.

I was so astonished that I lay awake in the hay for quite a while. Finally, sleep overtook me.

 

The sun was low in the sky when I woke. The farmer sat beside me, a hand on my forehead. I was soaking wet. When he saw my eyes open, the man shushed me.

“You were having a nightmare,” he explained. “You’re safe here.”

I nodded. “Could I have some water?” I asked weakly. The farmer pulled a canteen out of a satchel over his shoulder. I drank gratefully.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” he said, standing up and dusting off his knees. “I’ll see you inside.”

I drained the canteen and slowly stood, shaky on my feet. My skin felt clammy. I couldn’t remember many details of my dream, other than a militia surrounding me in a wheat field, and James’ face smirking at me. I tried to shake it off and climbed down the ladder.

The house was only a few yards from the barn. It was more of a cottage, really; tiny, with a thatched roof and a hearth that had nearly crumbled. I stood in the doorway, watching the farmer move efficiently around the kitchen.

I could see the moment he noticed me: my shadow fell across the mantel. He saw it and nearly jumped out of his skin, but calmed down instantly when he turned and saw it was just me.

“You’re a sneaky one,” there was a smile in his voice. He gestured for me to sit down at the small table. He looked at my hands, laid on top of the wood, and frowned.

“I can clean that up for you,” he said, gesturing at the scabs from my fall. I nodded gratefully. The farmer reached for a basket and pulled out a roll of bandages. He brought them to the table, along with a pitcher of water.

As he examined my hands, I examined him. Golden hair, going gray. Bags under his eyes – _insomnia, nightmares, guilty conscience?_ – the possibilities flashed in front of me.

He rinsed the gravel from my palms and wound the cotton tightly around the scrapes. He clearly knew what he was doing – although he was out of practice. As he tucked the ends of the bandage in, his fingers tangled in the fabric. He breathed a sigh of frustration before extricating himself.

“You’ll be good as new in a day or two,” he explained. “Until then, it could sting a bit. But no real harm.” Again, I nodded. My host stood up and went to the stove, bringing back a steaming pot.

“Just a stew, but it’ll warm you up,” the man explained as he filled my bowl. “I’m John, by the way.”

“Sherlock,” I said. It slipped out automatically, and I immediately cursed myself. I needed to think of an alias, and I needed to be more careful.

“Well Sherlock, you can stay in the barn tonight,” John said. “If you need to keep traveling at night, that’s fine. But you’re welcome to hide out here for a day or two.” 

My spoon stopped halfway to my mouth. He was inviting me to stay? I was baffled.

“But if you’re going to stay, no stealing, and I’ll need a little help around here,” John explained. I nodded dumbly.

“Ever worked with livestock?” he sounded hopeful but not quite optimistic. I shook my head. “Man of few words, right. Well, nothing too tough. I’ll show you the ropes.”

Later, John handed me wet dishes and I dried them. It was a mindless task, one that let my mind wander back to what my host had said earlier. 

“Why are you being so generous?” I asked. John stilled for a moment, then turned to look at me.

“You’re awfully rude,” he said, but there wasn’t any anger in his tone. “Although I suppose it’s a decent question.” He paused to think.

“It’s nice to have help around here, every once in a while,” he said slowly, “And I don’t get many visitors.” He shrugged. “You’re obviously in trouble and hiding from something. Based on your behavior and clothes, you’re not a criminal.”

I looked down at my tunic, then over at his. I’d chosen something simple, but it was obvious that my clothing was high quality. I should have pilfered something else from a stable boy or some vagabond.

“And I’ve been on the run before,” John finished with a shrug. “I know how hard it is.”

I gave him a shrewd look, and he raised an eyebrow. 

“Go on, then, stranger. Tell me what you’re thinking,” he said.

“You were in the army,” I announced. “You deserted after a battle, and you’ve been hiding out here for…” I looked him up and down. “Three years, give or take a few months.”

John laughed. “Fantastic,” he said. I couldn’t help but smile as he started whistling.

 

That night I climbed back into the hayloft, no longer an intruder. John had handed me an armful of blankets, and apologized for the lack of lantern.

“Too dangerous with the hay,” he explained. I nodded, not surprised at his caution – only surprised by how quickly he had welcomed me into this tiny, secluded world.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It doesn’t drive me crazy, but you should know that I see you, seeing me,” John said. “And you don’t need to tell me anything about before.” His voice had turned gentle. “Lord knows I know about running away.” 
> 
> Sherlock becomes fascinated with John, who is unlike anyone he's met before.

A day or two, John had said, but it became clear we were growing used to each other. Neither of us suggested that I move along, when the two days were up. So we simply continued.  
It took weeks for me to stop startling at every unexpected noise. I wasn’t truly at ease, but it was becoming easier to forget that there was a world outside John’s farm. Each morning, the racket from the animals below the loft woke me. Soon after, I would hear John trudge through the barn, his movements blurred by drowsiness. He’d pointedly clear his throat a few times, then I’d reluctantly join him.  
If anyone from my old life had been there, they wouldn’t have believed it: Sherlock Holmes, farm hand.  
Most days, after the animals were fed, John would head out to a field. I wasn’t much good with my hands scraped raw, so the first few days I took the chance to explore. There was a rickety row of fruit trees a good distance from the house; peaches and apples. I’d studied botany out of a book, but never gotten beyond perfectly manicured gardens. I was too closely guarded, never allowed to see something that struggled to bloom. This was an entirely foreign world to me: scraggly, bare branches that looked nearly lifeless. The peach tree had a half-dozen blossoms, each more pitiful than the last. I thought back to my lessons, trying to remember how to make things flourish. I had a woeful lack of practical experience.

  
I promised myself I would make this grow.

 

It was alarming to me how quickly the farm became home. After all, I’d been at court for years, and it had been wholly foreign to me until I met James. He’d drawn me in with intelligence and scheming, I suppose – given me a way to connect to the place. But I couldn’t trust any of that experience, not really. James was too cagey to be defined, too duplicitous to be a real confidant.  
Not like John.  
We barely spoke, some days, but every fiber of my being told me I could trust this stranger. This man who had given me a place to stay, offered me a chance to work in the fields, without any questions.  
There was a straightforward quality to him that I half-despised, half-adored. But in the evenings, when we sat by his fire, I watched flickers of a deep pain and fear flit across his face.  
Trustworthy and yet mysterious. How could he be both?

 

I lounged at the rough kitchen table while John puttered over a stew. I’d been studying him for nearly an hour, although I was sure he didn’t notice; he hadn’t glanced back at me once. He spoke, breaking my concentration.  
“I can feel it, you know,” he said plainly. I made an inquiring noise.  
“You, watching me. I can tell,” he explained. I shrugged and wondered if he could feel that, too.  
“It’s what I do,” I explained. “It drove people crazy, back…” I trailed off before I gave myself away. John shook his head with exasperation.  
“It doesn’t drive me crazy, but you should know that I see you, seeing me,” he said. “And you don’t need to tell me anything about before.” His voice had turned gentle. “Lord knows I know about running away.”  
With that he heaved the cast-iron pot onto the scarred kitchen table. Part of the stew spilled over, sending bits of carrots and celery onto the floor. He looked down, then smiled sheepishly at me.  
“And I know all about messes,” I heard myself say.  
We stood in silence, simply grinning at each other, until one of his goats bleated in the distance. It brought us back to ourselves, in unison, and John reached for two bowls. I cleared my throat and began to dole out dinner.

 

In the hayloft that night, I felt unaccountably warm. The summer nights weren’t so hot as they had been, although autumn was still weeks away. I tossed and turned, thinking of the way John smiled at me and dismissed my past. He must have wondered about it, I knew. But he never pushed.  
It was novel to me; I knew all about pushing and being pushed.  
In that moment, a shiver ran through me and I banished James from my thoughts. I thought of the firelight on cottage walls, of a hearty stew, and the warm security of knowing a troublesome goat would cry, should anyone come into the barn before I woke. I found myself to be quite happy as I drifted off to sleep.

  
I found myself quite safe.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for accidental self harm, brief suicidal thoughts

I knew it couldn’t last.

I went to the hayloft after dinner, as usual, and drifted off rather quickly. I’d never slept so well in the city; but then again, I’d never done any real work. I’d never truly been tired.

I woke with a start sometime later. The moon peeked through slats in the barn. I did some quick calculations and decided it must be nearly three. That’s when I heard the goat.

She let out one of those screams that seemed too human – it pierced straight to my bones. I sharpened my ears and heard more – the rustling of at least five men. They clearly didn’t know their way around – one knocked into the wagon, making a clatter.

A series of shushes, then I heard the hayloft ladder creak.

They had found me.

I jumped onto my feet and clenched my fists. I had to think of a way out. But there was nowhere to go; I was too far from the hatch John used to haul up hay bales. There was no second ladder. If I threw down the ladder, they would simply lift it back up, or set the barn on fire. There was no way out.

When the first man poked his head above the wooden beams, I hid in the shadows. He looked around, clearly missing my hiding place. But he didn’t retreat. Instead, they all came up, one after the other, and prowled through the loft. It didn’t take them long to find me.

One shouted down below, and a sixth person began the climb.

I went still. Frozen with fear or an odd defiance, I couldn’t say. But I knew who was coming up the ladder, and I knew what lay ahead for me. Either death, or life in a gilded cage.

In that moment, I would have chosen death.

The man on the ladder was taking his time; part of the punishment, I was sure. He knew I hated anticipation – he’d abused that many times. Why should this be any different?

Finally, I saw a pale hand grasp the top rung, peeking over the loft’s edge.

Just then, someone grasped my shoulder, and I lashed out like a wounded animal, using my fingernails like claws.

I turned around, intending to seize upon the moment and run, throw myself out of the hatch if necessary, when the entire world just… turned black.

 

I opened my eyes again – then quickly corrected myself. For the first time. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. John leaned over me, swearing and holding a hand to his cheek.

A dream. I should have known; it was a new moon tonight. If I hadn’t been blind with terror, I would have spotted the signs it was a nightmare.

Red came through John’s fingers – I had cut him. He must be the faceless man I had scratched at like a wild cat.

“John,” I croaked. I expected a glare, but he looked rather tenderly at me. “Are you alright?”

“I’ll be fine,” he said. “I’m more worried about you – you were making a racket out here, yelling in your sleep!” He looked a bit sheepish. “I wouldn’t have touched you, but…” he trailed off and looked down at my hands. I followed the gaze, and was shocked to see more blood. I must have been clenching my hands so hard that the nails cut the skin on my palms.

I looked back at John. “Thank you,” I said.

He grasped my bloody hand with his own.

“You are safe, Sherlock.” There was a quiet fierceness in his voice. “I swear. They won’t find you.”

Slowly, we each climbed out of the loft and walked toward the cottage. John warmed water on the stove, then gently washed the blood off us both.

When he was done, John looked at me warily.

“Sherlock,” he said, “Who is James?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thrive on feedback! I'm on tumblr too - as fieryphrazes.


	4. Chapter 4

“You don’t have to tell me,” John was understanding, as always. “But maybe it would help to talk about it.”

I forced myself to swallow – my throat was raw, proof that I had been screaming in my sleep.

“Is he your husband?” John asked timidly. I shook my head violently.

“No! No. He asked, but...” I could feel tears gathering in my eyes, and I put all my effort into not letting them out. “Before that, he was my first friend.”

I looked down at my hands, riddled with crescent-shaped cuts. John stood up and stoked the fire, then returned to the table. I looked up at him, a sense of safety radiating from him, filling every corner of the cottage. He looked so concerned. I didn’t deserve it – I didn’t deserve any of it. The concern, the kindness, even the place in the hayloft.

“Sherlock,” John said as he grasped my hands, “Nothing that happened before will change this. You have a place here.”

That’s what finally made the tears spill over.

“He was the only person who even came close to understanding me, back – back there,” I explained. “He wanted to hear my observations, what I noticed about people. He laughed when I accidentally said rude things. He was on my side – for a while, at least.” I took a deep breath.

“It was all an act,” I said. “Oh, he was certainly brilliant, and maybe he did care about me, in his own way. But he wanted to collect me, to put me on a shelf and show me off. Like a performing monkey.”

John was shaking his head.

“I can’t imagine –“ he sounded pained – “I can’t imagine anyone trying to keep you.”

I couldn’t tell if John sounded sad for me, or for himself.

“James got more and more demanding,” I explained. “He would need to know where I was at all times, who I’d spoken to, what I was reading. He forbade me from leaving the… the building.” I stopped just before explaining exactly where I’d come from, and who exactly James was.

“There were times, early on, when I thought we would be a team. But it became clear that James is a team of one, and everyone else is just a pawn to him.”

A startling noise – John had slammed his fist on the table.

“Dammit, Sherlock! You’re not a pawn,” he said passionately. “You’re brilliant, and you’re wild, and – and you deserve someone who loves that part of you.”

My tears suddenly dried up – I think they had been shocked into submission. John seemed to realize he’d been half-yelling. He looked down at his fist, still resting on the tabletop, and looked sheepish.

“I didn’t mean to yell,” he said quietly. “I just… I don’t understand. How someone could ask you to be anything except what you are.” His fist slowly loosened, the tension in his body melting away.

That night – or what was left of it – John bundled me into his bed. I felt weakened from crying, and I hated the feeling, which made me feel even weaker. He lay down on the floor next to the low bed frame, between me and the door. For a moment, I watched the firelight flicker on the ceiling rafters. I blinked, and it was daylight.

I sat up, confused. Had I slept so deeply that it seemed no time had passed at all? It seemed hard to believe, but then it had been months since I’d slept in a real bed. The path of the sun on the floor meant it had to be past ten. I was still recovering from the shock when John appeared in the doorway.

Somehow, looking at him leaning on the doorframe, arms crossed, I became even groggier. He smiled at me, a soft, sweet thing, and I felt lost.


	5. Chapter 5

John pulled out a kerchief and wiped sweat from his forehead. I’d been observing him from a distance for nearly an hour, watching as he slowly turned a hunk of stone into a rough rectangle. He handled a chisel with confidence – a skill I hadn’t known he had.

His solitary life must lead to this, I thought. Must lead to an approximate knowledge of nearly everything. I’d read an entire royal library, but had barely any practical skills, nothing I could work with my hands.

John had spent years doing everything on his own, for himself, alone. He didn’t need my help.

So why did he let me stay? This thought occupied my mind more and more lately. I puzzled over it. I knew what I got out of it – I got safety, and I got my first real friend. John just got… me.

I have no idea how much time passed as I stared. Eventually John spotted me, smiled, and waved me over.

“Time for you to be useful,” John said warmly. “Here, take this side.”

We carried the stone together – it was rough around the edges, but nearly the right shape.

The night before, John asked me to read from his swashbuckler while he sat by the cold fireplace, chisel and hammer in hand. He methodically chipped away the mortar that held a crumbling corner stone in place. As he worked, I occasionally caught John mouthing along as I read out loud. How many times had he read these, to have them so nearly memorized?

By the time my voice started to falter, John had removed and swept up the dust and crumbs of rock.

As he bid me goodnight, he warned that he’d need help carrying the new hearthstone. I whistled on my way back to the barn.

That’s how I found myself here, lugging a rock over to the house.

Eventually we made it inside, practically covered in the dust that clung to the stone. John led the way to the hearth, where we tipped it onto its side. I lowered my half slowly into the empty place – and let out a yelp.

John jumped and grasped my shoulder, but my finger was stuck under the weight. I nearly howled – John rushed to tilt the stone up, giving me space to escape. I shook my hand, hoping I could – I don’t know – escape the pain. I wasn’t thinking clearly.

John seized my fingers; they were deathly pale and cold to the touch. I watched in a daze as he brought them up to his mouth, then inside. I swear, in that moment, my heart stopped beating – from pain, from shock, I can’t say. Just as soon as it began, it was over. John was examining my hand closely as color returned. The pain began fading.

John released me, confident that the skin wasn’t broken, and there was no lasting damage.

“Sorry about the,” John paused bashfully and gestured at his face, “the mouth thing. Had to get the dust off so I could see if anything –“

“It’s fine,” I interrupted. “I don’t mind.”

He looked at me shyly, and I let a smile peek through.

We put the finishing touches on the hearth. Just in time, too; the nights were starting to get colder. The repaired hearth meant a bigger blaze to keep us warm. Tomorrow night, once the mortar set, we’d be able to light another fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh i bet they'll light a fire..... as always, i thrive on comments! 
> 
> find me on tumblr @fieryphrazes

**Author's Note:**

> Gee, do you think they'll end up bound to each other.....? 
> 
> This is based on a dream I had literally years ago! The Sherlock character was originally a woman but I got such icky, misogynist vibes from a het relationship in this world. It works SO much better with my two favs. 
> 
> I have a couple more chapters written, but it's by no means done. PLEASE let me know if this is something I should follow through to the end! I would love any & all input/encouragement.


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